Fading Scars
by actions-we-remember
Summary: Ann's life is taking a turn for the better, but can she sort out her confused feelings? Can Charlie be the one to heal her fading scars? Chann, twoshot
1. Debut

**Okay, so I needed a quick break from Sweet Complications (yes, I'm still working on it). So I decided to write a Charlie/Ann oneshot. At least, it's a oneshot for now. I can write more later, when Sweet Complications is done. Anyway, here's Fading Scars.**

**Disclaimer: Alright, so I _do _own AGATB, RB, and TSFT. They're on my bookshelf now. But, I don't own the rights to them. Pity, isn't it?**

The seats of the Gaiety theatre are all filled, each with a curious and critical occupant. The quiet hum of voices sends butterflies aflutter in my stomach, and I fear that I might lose my lunch. My fellow actors and actresses seem to be immune to the nerves that plague me, however. They bustle about, rouging their cheeks and fixing their costumes. They've all done this before. I, however, am completely new at this life, the lone amateur in the cast. Not for the first time, I wonder what on earth I'm doing here.

"Positions, everyone!" the composer, Charlie Smalls, stage whispers in his American accent, and my heart does another flip. "The show's about to start! Where's my Maidens?"

My co-stars glide over to him, painted lips smiling coyly. I stay where I am in the unlit area just beyond the curtains, my anxiety keeping my feet glued to the ground. The other girls walk onto the stage with their dance partners, including my own partner, Jonathan.

"Come now, Ann." Charlie whispers into my ear, giving me a gentle push towards the stage. "Your debut beckons."

The irony of his statement strikes me, even through my panic. I'll never have a debut, at least, not the kind my friends have had. With a pang, I realize that I don't know if my friends are even coming tonight. Charlie sees the fear on my face as I peer around the curtain's edge into the audience.

"You'll be fantastic, Ann. I didn't choose you to be a Maiden for nothing!" I can't reply. My lungs don't seem to be working. Instead, I walk numbly onto the stage to join the others.

"Break a leg!" Charlie calls to the cast as a whole when I finally manage to take my position in front of Jonathan, who smiles encouragingly at me. I force myself to breathe.

In what seems like no time, I hear the impresario announcing our performance, and the polite applause of our viewers. My first audience. Before the realization of that can hit, the curtain opens, and the play begins.

At first, my body refuses to move. Jonathan does his best to pry me from my inert position, and after a split second, he succeeds. I move mechanically, eyes wide with fear. At my first line, my mind blanks. Jonathan and the other actors look at me, trying their upmost to telepathically send me my line. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Charlie flashing me a thumbs up. My mind clears, and when I speak, I am the very epitome of my character, Mercy Griffin.

After that, the rest of the first act goes relatively smoothly. Jonathan and I stumble slightly in our first dance, but recover, and one of the actress's voice cracks in the middle of her solo. The audience titters quietly, but the actress, Arianna, keeps singing, her cheeks barely flushed under her layers of makeup. By intermission, every one of the actors on stage has made at least one mistake, though none horrible enough to completely ruin the show.

Second act is, by comparison, quite the dismal affair. Lines are forgotten, dancers collide, and entrances are made at the wrong time. Despite the mistakes, I'm jubilant when we take our final bow, smiling hugely and bending lower than necessary in my excitement. It is a phenomenal feeling to finally bow to a live audience after dreaming of doing this for years. Distantly, I hear my name being called from the seats, and when I look up, it is to see two familiar pairs of eyes, one, a striking green, the other, a frosty gray. My friends, Gemma Doyle and Felicity Worthington. At the sight of them, my heart leaps and my smile grows. Leaving the stage, I wave joyfully at them.

"Simply spectacular, all of you!" Charlie says when we are all clustered backstage. Some of the actors snort disbelievingly. "Alright, there were some rough parts, but it was only the first performance! Things are bound to improve!"

I can't help but feel bolstered by Charlie's enthusiasm. His blue eyes are alight with excitement as he talks animatedly about rehearsals and performances, and I find I can't wait for my next chance to shine.

* * *

_Several weeks later_

Our last performance.

It is a bittersweet moment. We all put our hearts into the show, using every ounce of skill we've acquired. Since the first performance, we've all improved immensely, getting to the point where mistakes are few and far between. I sing for all that I'm worth, and dance with every bit of grace I have. Every move shouts the same thing at me: _It's the last time._

Before I know it, we are being called forward for the final bow. My eyes swim with tears I desperately try not to shed. I smile joyfully at my audience, sweeping low into my curtsy and waving coyly. I don't know how I manage to hold back my tears, but I do, until I scurry backstage amid thunderous applause with my fellow actors, my family for these last months. We're all a bit misty-eyed as we say our good-byes, with promises of letters and visits. I hug Jonathan fiercely, sob with Arianna, and exchange one last joke with Quinn, a rather witty stagehand. I save Charlie for last.

"Hello, Ann." Charlie says sadly. He never uses my maiden name, a quality I had found endearingly unconventional. "You were a joy to work with."

"Thank you, Charlie." I answer, my already wet eyes drowning in new tears. "I hope we get a chance to do this again."

"As do I." His voice is so forlorn, as if he's truly sorry to see me go. But I know better than to let my imagination run wild. We may be great friends, but a man like Charlie Smalls would never think anything more of a girl like me.

"Until next time then." I say, smiling miserably and extending my hand to shake.

Charlie takes my hand. But instead of merely shaking it, he lifts it to his lips, kissing it like the proper gentleman. A sob escapes me. Before I realize what I am doing, I throw my arms around Charlie's shoulders in a slightly desperate hug, tears falling down my face. Charlie returns it briefly before I pull away, shocked at my behavior.

"I'm so sorry." I manage to gasp out before running through the emotional cast into my dressing room, where I can shed my tears in peace. Behind me, Charlie stays where I left him, a shocked look on his face.

"Next time." He repeats softly when I am out of sight.

* * *

A few days later, I'm riding in a carriage, on my way to Gemma's grandmother's home in London's West End. I fiddle with my gloves, excited and nervous to see my friend again. 

"Ann!" I hear Gemma's voice as the carriage pulls up to the house. She runs out to meet me as fast as she can whilst wearing a corset. "Oh, Ann, I've missed you! _Merry Maidens_ was fantastic! It's the talk of London!"

"Thank you." I say quietly, smiling. "I've missed you, too."

"Come inside, then!" Gemma ushers me to the door. "We can catch up in there. Fee's waiting."

Gemma leads me into the parlor. Fee sits on a chair, gazing out at the fashionable side of London through a curtained window. As soon as I walk in the door, she's up and running at me, considerably faster than Gemma had been. When she pulls away from her enthusiastic embrace, I see why. Instead of a skirt and corset, Fee is clad in trousers and a blouse. My eyes widen at her boldness.

"Oh, Ann, you look marvelous!" Fee's voice is just as I remember it: full of life and mischief. "The stage life becomes you, truly."

"You look…marvelous, yourself." I say, still staring at her pants, and Felicity chuckles.

"Yes, they are rather spectacular, aren't they?" Fee fingers the seams of her trousers lovingly. "They certainly grab the attention of a room, at least."

Gemma laughs, but I still feel a bit shocked.

The three of us sit and talk together, drinking tea and telling the stories of our last few months apart. Fee has been in Paris, living among the bohemians and attracting attention for her careless attitude. Judging from the shine in her eyes and the delight in her tale, she's loving the Parisian lifestyle. Gemma quietly tells us about America. I know from the pain in her face that she's not completely whole yet from our last trip into the realms. But as she tells her story, a gentle breeze blows through the room, soft as a whisper, and she smiles dreamily, leaving me and Fee to stare at her in confusion.

Eventually, though, all the tea drinking takes its toll on me, and I venture off in search of the privy, trying to remember Gemma's vague directions. I manage to find it without much difficulty, but when I close the door behind me to leave, Thomas comes around the corner, several thick books tucked under his arms. My breath catches in my throat, scared to face him so soon. And so alone.

"Miss- Miss Bradshaw?" he stammers. "What a…surprise."

"Hello, Mr. Doyle." I say politely, trying to hide my nerves. He's really quite handsome, and it's very distracting. "It's w-wonderful to see you again."

"You as well." His eyes narrow slightly distrustfully. "I hear you are an actress now." There is no ignoring the disdain in his voice. I feel myself shrinking. "How lovely."

"Thank you. I-I rather enjoy the stage life."

"I'm sure you do."

I hear the demeaning undercurrent to his words, even through the polite façade, and my heart falls. This is not the Thomas I had met before: he had been charming, accepting, alluring, even. The man before me was none of those things. He disapproves of me for my profession, one that I truly adore. Charlie's face appears in my mind's eye, but I shake off the image.

"Is something the matter, Miss Bradshaw?" Thomas asks, peering in at me. "You look ill. Are you feeling quite alright?"

"Yes, thank you. I am feeling perfectly fine." My words are flat. The concern in his voice is only a pretense. He couldn't care less.

"Good, then." Thomas continues to look at me. I feel odd under his scrutiny, as if I am a new patient of his. He examines me closely, his eyes taking in as much as possible in a short amount of time. Within seconds, that look becomes another expression I am most familiar with.

Disappointment.

"Well, good day to you, Miss Bradshaw." Thomas says, starting to walk past me. "Enjoy life on the stage." His words are a slap.

"Yes, good day to you, as well." I walk slowly down the hall towards Gemma and Felicity, thinking.

My heart, so nervous before, is quiet now. There is no excitement at having seen Thomas again, no joy at having had his attention, if only for a moment. No, there is only a dull ache, an ache that has been there since I left the cast of _The Merry Maidens_.

Since I left Charlie.

I try to push this thought out of my mind, but the laughing, friendly image of Charlie Smalls bursts before my eyes. I remember his enthusiasm, his energy. Most of all, I remember his faith in me. Never, no matter how ungraceful I had been, had Charlie shown any disappointment in me. He handled my mistakes with a gap-toothed smile and a tip of the hat, often offering me assistance himself.

I smile to myself. Practices alone with Charlie had been one of the highlights of the play. He was so alive, so caring. He had always had a compliment at the ready, had always made me feel beautiful.

But I'm not. I were beautiful, I wouldn't be living alone in a shabby flat in London. If I were beautiful, I would have theatres begging for me to perform for them, not having to work part-time as a sales clerk at a bookstore for extra money.

If I were beautiful, I wouldn't feel this numb. But it's a familiar feeling, this emptiness. Before Gemma had come along, this had been the only sensation I'd felt. The fading scars on my wrist are like a siren's call. _Come on, Ann_, _you need to feel something…you know you want to…_

I remember the first time Charlie had seen those scars. He had looked at me, incredulity in his bright blue eyes.

"What's this, Ann?" he had asked, holding up my wrist. I'd stammered and tried to come up with a plausible answer, but there wasn't one.

"I- I had t-t-to feel so-something" I had cried into my hands. I felt Charlie's arms snake around my trembling shoulders. "It d-doesn't matter, anyway. Who c-cares what ha-happens to m-me?"

"Nonsense, Ann." Charlie's voice had been so soft, so soothing. "Many people care about you. You're a beautiful person."

I remembered how I used to wish for someone to lie to me and say I was beautiful. Something inside me told me he wasn't lying.

"Of c-course _you'd_ say that." The tears hadn't stopped.

"Why shouldn't I?" His voice had dropped to a whisper. "You're stunning, Ann."

The laugh I had let escape me was shaky and weak, but it was a true laugh all the same. For a moment, neither of us had moved. I wasn't too sure I wanted him to. But then he'd pulled away, examining me fondly at an arm's length.

"There, now." He had said, a wide, gap-toothed grin spreading across his face. "Let's get to rehearsing. I want to hear you sing."

And that was that. He never mentioned my scars again. It didn't become the gossip of the theater. No one looked at me any different. Charlie had kept my scars a secret, and that meant more to me than he would ever know.

I pull myself back to the present. There is no point in thinking about Charlie. The play is over, and we've gone our separate ways. My heart sinks as I walk into the parlor, where Gemma and Felicity still sit talking.

* * *

Later, I sit alone in my small flat in London, listening to the sounds of the city outside and remembering my reunion with my friends. Inside, everything is still. 

A knock on my door echoes through the silence, making me gasp in surprise. I jump up to answer it, wondering who on earth would come to call at this hour. I pull open the door.

"Pardon me, mum," the landlord, Mr. Mills, says. "Bu' oo 'ave a visitor."

"Yes, thank you." I reply, looking over his shoulder at my visitor. He's got a hat pulled down low on his face. Even so, I would recognize him anywhere. Mr. Mills makes his exit, but I stand in my doorframe, too shocked to move. My visitor looks up at me with bright blue eyes under the rim of his hat.

"Hello, Ann." Charlie Smalls says softly in his American accent, removing his cap and smiling his heart melting, gap-toothed smile.

I can't hold myself back. Before either of us know what's happening, I throw myself into his welcoming embrace, grinning like a fool. "Charlie!"

"I've missed you, as well." He laughs, not letting go of my arms, even after we've separated. His hands are soft and warm through my sleeves.

"Oh!" I turn and beckon for to him to follow me. "Come in, please!"

We spend the evening talking about nothing and everything, getting re-acquainted with each other. I find that, even through my shy appearance, I'm smiling more than I have since leaving _The Merry Maidens_, and my happiness is mirrored in Charlie's face.

"Your apartment is really quite nice, Ann." Charlie remarks as he looks around. "I don't know why you talked it down so much back in _Maidens_. It must have taken a long time to get it like this."

"Quite." I laugh politely. "I'm still working on getting everything just right."

"Maybe you could use my help." Charlie says shyly, looking intently at my carpet.

I stare at our feet, as well. "Would you mind terribly?"

"Not at all." Charlie's gaze rises shyly back up to my face. "It would mean more time with you."

I turn my head to the window to hide my blush.

"Oh!" I exclaim. "Where has the time gone?"

The scene outside my window is quite different from the last time I looked out it. The sun is no longer out, replaced by a silver moon. The London nightlife is now in full swing, complete with drunken catcalls and bustling people.

"It is late, isn't it?" Charlie stands. "I should be going. I've been here far too long."

"You're always welcome here, Charlie." I demur timidly.

"Thank you." He replies. I rise and lead him to the door. He stands in the frame, smiling at me. "It was great to see you again, Ann. Really. I'm glad I came."

"As am I."

"We should do this again. Soon." I nod earnestly.

Charlie sweeps off his hat in a low, joking bow, blue eyes twinkling, and I giggle. He straightens again. He lowers his face to mine, and brushes his lips against my cheek boldly. My skin burns where his lips touch, and a blush spreads from my head to my toes.

"Goodnight, Ann." He whispers, donning his cap again and striding away. I stand where I am, my hand pressed to my cheek delicately, lips parted in shock. After a moment, I gather my senses and dash inside to my window. Below, Charlie walks cheerfully onto the streets. He glances upward, sees me, and waves. I wave back, and he continues on his way.

"Goodnight, Charlie." I murmur, my breath fogging the window of my apartment.

**Done! For now. Thoughts? I rather enjoyed writing about the play. It was fun. Might have to continue this oneshot...after Sweet Comp. is done, though.**

**Is still swamped with wedding research for Sweet Complications,**

**'Dreamer (ha, a nickname for my penname. how sad...)**


	2. Music

**Wow, I'm on a roll. I actually posted a second chapter! Thanks for the support for the first chapter, and I hope this one is enjoyable. :)**

**Dedication: This chapter was strongly influenced by my former band director, John L. Washburn. I dedicate it to him, because he's an amazing person, this wouldn't have been written without him, and because I'm going to miss him next year. _You're an inspiration to me and countless others, thank you for everything you've done and everything you've given up. Good luck at Carolina Forest next year; St. James won't be the same. Once a shark, always a shark._**

**Disclaimer: Libba Bray is the genius behind all the characters. I just stole them for a time. -shifty eyes-**

"You have far too many books, Ann. Surely you haven't read _all_ of them!"

Ann looked up from the pile of novels she was sorting. "I like books, Charlie," she said slightly defensively.

Charlie Smalls shook his head. "You ought to get rid of some of them. Look, this one's spine is nearly broken clean in half!"

"I couldn't get rid of them," Ann replied, blushing. She gazed down at the rather large pile of books she was supposed to be putting back on her bookshelf. Charlie had been helping her for the past few days, cleaning and decorating her small flat like he had promised. Together they had already tackled the hall, and their newest project was the sitting room. "I've collected them all over the years. Gemma and Fee gave most of them to me. Fee more than Gemma," she added wryly. Charlie chuckled and came to look at the books over her shoulder.

"It's quite an eclectic collection," he commented, picking up one of the books. "_Pride and Prejudice, Macbeth_…I can understand the Shakespeare, of course."

Ann gently pried her book out of Charlie's hands. "I told you, I _like_ books," she mumbled, embarrassed. "I always have."

"Why?"

Ann looked puzzled at Charlie's question. "Why shouldn't I?" she asked, forgetting her sorting.

Charlie smirked. "Why _should_ you?"

Sighing, Ann returned to her novels. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Charlie."

"And that, my dear," Charlie said smugly, "is exactly what I was trying to prove." Ann looked up at him again, and he grinned. "You don't question what you're told, Ann, nor what you do. I thought that, perhaps you had at one point, and knew why you were drawn to books so." He sighed exaggeratedly. "I was wrong. You are content to accept everything as it is, no questions asked."

"Why would I question things?" Ann inquired, used to his dramatic ways. "Everything is what it is, everything is here and known."

"You wound me, Ann," Charlie moaned, pressing a theatric hand over his heart. "If philosophers and scientists had that frame of mind, where would we be?"

"That's fine for philosophers," Ann said, wondering how on earth that had gotten into this discussion, "but I'm certainly not one. Why should _I_ question things?"

"To learn," Charlie replied simply, sitting down on the couch and patting the space next to him invitingly. Ann stood and walked over to him, intrigued by his philosophy. "You can't understand many things without asking about them."

"It's not my place to ask," Ann murmured, toying with her skirt. "I'm a woman."

Charlie snorted. "Ann, out of everyone I've ever met, you've got one of the best minds. You're _intelligent_, and you listen. Woman or no, you owe it to yourself to question." Ann raised a skeptic eyebrow. "I mean it, Ann. If you won't do it for your mind, then do it for your career."

"My career?" Ann repeated, startled. "What's questioning got to do with acting?" Charlie smiled, obviously pleased she had asked. Ann felt a warming tingle spread through her veins at the sparkle in Charlie's blue eyes.

"Everything, Ann. If an actor does not ask themselves why his character is behaving the way he is, then how can he—or she—truly portray that character? How can they claim to understand the motive behind an action, if they do not think about what's caused it? Is it possible to become a person, even for a time, without questioning what has happened to bring them to that point?" He smiled down at Ann. "Acting and questioning go hand-in-hand. Surely you asked yourself questions when you were in _Maidens?_"

Ann nodded slowly. "Alright, so an actor should question their character," she pondered aloud. "But what of an orphan on the street? What of the rich man who has everything he could ever dream of?"

Charlie was silent for a moment, thinking through his answer. Ann waited patiently, musing over the change in her behavior. The old Ann would have balked at interviewing a man in such a way, but the new Ann was confident of receiving an answer. The Ann at Spence would have greeted Charlie's philosophy with a meek nod and a timid reply, not a conversation on whether it was right or not.

_Gemma was right_, Ann thought, _I _have_ changed._

Finally, Charlie looked at Ann again. "Orphans should ask themselves what they want in life, and why they were left to live while their family was not. If they do not know that, then they can never achieve it." Ann stared down at her skirt. Charlie patted her hand soothingly. "The rich man has to understand his luck, and should question why he is so lucky as to have everything, when so many around him have nothing." A bitter smile toyed at his lips. "Most of them won't."

Ann nodded again. Her hand was on fire from Charlie's touch. She looked up at his pensive blue eyes. "And what of the composer? What must they question?"

"I'm so glad you asked." Charlie stood, beckoning for Ann to follow him with a smile. He led her over to the piano, the pulled her down to sit beside him. He looked at her. "What makes music enjoyable?" Ann frowned, not knowing how to answer, and making Charlie smile. "Dynamics, harmonies, melodies, dissonance. Emotion." His smile grew. "Many things make up music, but emotion is what leaves the audience breathless."

"That's all very well," Ann replied, fingering a piano key, "but what does it have to do with questioning, if you don't mind my asking?"

Wordlessly, Charlie reached for a sheet of music nearby. He presented it to Ann. "Tell me," he said, grinning. "What do you see on this?"

Ann studied the sheet, sure he was trying to trick her. It was one of Charlie's compositions, and Ann's favorite song in _Maidens_. She knew it all by heart.

"Music?" she tried, finally looking up from the sheet. Charlie shook his head.

"What is music?" he asked.

"Sound between two periods of silence," Ann parroted, remembering with a smile what Charlie had drilled into her head throughout _Maidens_. Charlie nodded.

"Then what is this?" he prompted, indicating the sheet music again.

"Notes?" Ann guessed, feeling confused, but Charlie flashed his gap-toothed grin.

"All this is is black dots on a page," he agreed. "Music is much more than that. And as a composer, it's my job to explore that. When I write music, I have to think of everything, every message one note sends, every image I want in my audience's mind. I have to know what I want and how to set about getting that. To do this, I need questions." He looked down at the piano. "A truly successful song means that I can hand it to any musician, tell them to play it, and hear exactly what I wanted to hear."

"But doesn't that work both ways?" Ann inquired, watching Charlie's fingers hover above the keys. "Shouldn't the musician understand the music, as well?"

"Exactly, Ann," Charlie said approvingly. "You're catching on faster than I thought you would." His fingers danced softly across the keys, playing a quiet number from his play. "Musicians, too, have to ask what message is being sent. To send their emotions, they have to feel it, have to know what is being said in that song. A composer can only do so much." A wry smile played at Charlie's lips. "It's the musician's job to carry on and improve the song. I only write it."

"What if the song is already good?" Ann asked, eyes still on his dancing fingers.

A soft chuckle escaped Charlie. "If better is possible, then good is never enough."

They sat in silence as Charlie's song went on, filling the room with its cheerful sound. Ann felt her heart soar at the familiar song; she had missed hearing it. Finally, Charlie's fingers came down on the last note, and he looked up at Ann over the quavering sound.

"I've only ever met one musician who could perform the song with just what I wanted the first time around," he said softly. "And I doubt I'll ever find someone else like her."

Ann felt a strange shiver shoot down her spine. With a jolt, she realized she was jealous, jealous of a girl who had made Charlie proud.

"When was this?" she asked, ignoring the nagging envy. Charlie looked wistfully at the piano again.

"Not too long ago," he answered. Ann's heart twisted painfully. "I had hired her almost on a whim. Her voice was beautiful, but there was something about her, something…secretive, that really made the deal. It was almost as if she was afraid to let anyone in, that her past was shadowed. Scarred." He blinked slowly, eyes drifting towards Ann. "I never once regretted hiring her."

"What was her name?" Ann almost whispered, feeling herself succumbing to the numb wash of disappointment she had so often felt at Spence.

Charlie turned to face her. "Ann Bradshaw."

It took a moment for her name to register in Ann's mind. When it did, a blush stained her cheeks, tainting them red. Charlie lifted a tentative hand, brushing a loose strand of hair away from Ann's flushed cheeks. Warmth from his fingertips brushing her skin spread down to her toes. Charlie smiled softly at Ann.

"She is one special girl. I'd hate to see her leave," he said softly, bringing his hand back to the piano keys.

Ann didn't know what to say. She just sat there, staring at Charlie. Finally, she opened her mouth, but closed it again, mind still blank. Charlie chuckled lightly. Ann blushed again and stared down at her hands. Timidly, and trembling, she stretched out a hand and laced her fingers through Charlie's. She felt his fingers closer around hers, squeezing them softly.

Charlie cleared his throat. "Ann, I—"

He stopped, fidgeting on his seat. Ann looked curiously up at him. Blue eyes met hers, and she was drowning in a blue sea, lost in his expressive eyes. Slowly he leaned down towards her and brushed his lips cautiously against hers. A shock tore through Ann, leaving her breathless and lightheaded. The kiss didn't linger, but the feel of his lips on hers, even for a moment, remained. She was dizzy with giddiness, and smiling like a fool.

"You know," she rasped, hardly knowing what she was saying, "I think I like questions."

**I am such a band geek, it's not even funny. Even though I'm a clarinet player...but whatever. Did you like it? Ann was a bit philisophical, but I think she's been changed by theatre life; it changed me when I was a thespian. Let me know if you liked it, and I might write more, eventually!**

**By the way, I know that I switched from Ann's POV to third person, and from present tense to past, but it was easier to write it this way, so I changed it. :)**

**Shocked that she actually wrote this,  
Brighteyes**


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